


You Must First Think Like a Thief

by Hyacinthz



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Romance, I don't want to officially call this canon divergence. . . BUT, Identity Issues, Other, POV Alternating, POV Third Person, Role Reversal, and OCs applied as needed, full disclosure: this one's a little silly (except for where it isn't), implied/referenced Mick Mercury, in order to get the jupeter you must first experience the rita and pete power hour, meet cutes and meet uglies, minor/background Rita/OC - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:41:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28081101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyacinthz/pseuds/Hyacinthz
Summary: Perseus Shah: former detective, current artiste. He charges a lot for dance lessons and he’ll take all your things, too. Peter Nureyev? No. He does not know anyone by that name. That man—what did you call him, again? Shah can’t recall.Why, he must be no one at all.Perseus Shah turned down another job to be here.(a season one AU VERY loosely inspired by The Music Man)
Relationships: Peter Nureyev & Rita, Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel, Rita & Juno Steel
Comments: 14
Kudos: 13





	You Must First Think Like a Thief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I usually try and save most of my yelling for the end but:  
> 1) Please see the end notes for warnings if needed, they're a little spoiler-y but there are a few specific ones re: intoxication and violence  
> 2) You do not need to know ANYTHING about The Music Man to read this  
> 3) I don't expect this to spoil anything beyond Juno Steel and the Man in Glass (through 3x02)  
> 4) This is a WIP and has been for a while. I am aiming to finish this sooner rather than later, but wanted to be up front about it! While I may add tags, I don't anticipate changing the rating or adding archive warnings.
> 
> TY for reading! I hope you enjoy this incredibly silly thing.

**Part 1**

_and when the man dances, certainly boys, what else: the piper pays him!_

* * *

Hyperion City: a target larger than most. A deeper, stormier sea to swim for one Perseus Shah. Perseus Shah, former detective, steps off the evening’s last ship to Mars from Io and begins his jaunt towards a newly-rented and modestly furnished one-bedroom on the outskirts of Halcyon. Former detective, still hobbyist perhaps. Yes, Shah thinks, oh yes. To someone wide-eyed enough, to someone who has the creds to spare, Perseus Shah will always be a willing detective. _Willing_? Shah will be enthusiastic! Shah will never turn down a mystery, except when the duty of his new business venture calls. Establishing one’s artistic career borne of passion in such an uncaring metropolis as Hyperion City is, after all, its own kind of marriage. The business on Triton was unfortunate but well-contained: _Detective Shah_ will ring no alarm bells here on Mars. Shah’s first love was always detective work and so shall it stay.

Perseus Shah trips on an overturned trash can and concludes that the persona may require a few edits. There is long-winded enthusiasm and there is inattention. Falling in the street is more one than the other, and terribly out of character besides.

The plan is this: Perseus Shah will establish himself. Perseus Shah will charm the neighbors. Perseus Shah will rent studio space in the comfortable part of Halcyon, under the float of the upper class manses belonging to those sad Hyperion City elite neither famous nor quite rich enough to rub elbows with the Kanagawas et al.

And Perseus Shah and his painstakingly forged paper trail of a pedigree will teach their children ballet.

This, he thinks, is doable. He has grace in spades, and a handful of classes under his belt besides. He remembers enough of the basics to manage a few months of bare instruction and can muster enough flash to distract anyone who takes offense to his pacing.

Finally, a recital.

What a wonderful thing, a recital! Oh, Perseus Shah will take such pride in hosting his own. Such pride, in fact, that entire families will flock to it. Entire houses left empty! A triumph.

Overly complicated? Perhaps. But Perseus Shah enjoys laughing at himself as much as anyone. And this is an old game, one last played just free of Earth’s atmosphere by a Regis something-or-other. The shape of it was simple enough: it involved not the studio and the recital, but canvas stretched on frames and daily classroom outings to art museums spanning the Lunar colonies. If any of his students noticed that his skills tended more to the precision of imitation rather than the artistry of creation, well. So long as they kept it to themselves, bereft museum curators across Luna would remain none the wiser.

Here and now, Perseus Shah has arranged a fence through the Vixen Valley, has already looked into the kinds of things Hyperion’s just-less-than obscenely wealthy keep in their vaults, on their walls, in their display cases. Research reveals it is all more than enough to make up for the rental fees, more than enough to turn his head. Combined with the amount he’ll be able to charge for lessons with a straight face, well. Perseus Shah will be laughing at himself and his heavy pockets the entire trip off-planet, and in a private ship besides.

After Triton, the identity could use burning. Why not use Mars for a final hurrah? This is his first time in Hyperion City and it’s charming enough, if dusty and full of hazards to foot traffic. The next time he steps off a shuttle to Hyperion, it will be somebody else’s first trip. And that fact sits perfectly well with Perseus Shah, a man with an expiration date.

Perseus Shah arrives at a building he could confidently call serviceable. Perseus Shah rides the struggling elevator to the third floor. Despite the late hour, Perseus Shah takes the time to settle in, to put away his things, to unwrap the secondhand set of sheets he nabbed from a vendor on Io, to make his bed—complete with knife slid in a nook in the frame. He readies himself to sleep and settles against the pillow-less mattress with the rapture of a newly-unfolding scheme fluttering warm in his throat. He will have to purchase a pillow. Perseus Shah has never owned a pillow. But he will, after all, be here a while.

He wakes early in the morning. He readies himself and exits into a hallway that smells only slightly of damp and brings to mind the sort of life he so rarely observes—the sounds of streams at a moderate volume filter through the doors of a few of the apartments. Down the hall, someone speaking on comms. Further down still, near the elevator, two voices barely audible in their conversation. He passes a door and catches a whiff of brewing coffee. Another, garbage.

Ten apartments to a floor. Five floors total. Fire escapes clinging to each unit. A stairwell at either end of the building, one right outside number 10 where he resides. And, on this end: number 1, a stairwell, and an elevator.

He is a little less Perseus Shah this morning, which very nearly hurts. With no eyes on him, he has the questionable luxury of being no one at all. The plan for today is to begin with the mundane: the shopping he needs to survive. After, he will don Shah with far more care and panache than a run to the grocery store warrants and finalize the lease on his studio space. He will confirm the promotional materials he ordered and he will practice in the studio and he will regain that energy sleep took from him. He will.

His groceries consist mostly of a single pillow, a few staples, and the most palatable-looking frozen meals he can find. Frugality only makes sense for the moment—his payout is likely, but not assured. Although, the man who is not quite Perseus Shah thinks, it will be. This is what he has decided to do and he will do it. He will. Lesson one—

No.

Perseus Shah will do it, and he will do it with style. It is Perseus Shah who takes the elevator cheerily, pillow tucked against his chest and arms laden with grocery bags. It is Perseus Shah who cannot quite see over the top of the pillow and accidentally runs into someone as the doors chime open on the third floor.

It is Perseus Shah who sings the concerned, “My apologies!” and does his best to steady the person while also avoiding hitting her in the face with a grocery bag.

“Sorry, sorry! Face in my comms, I didn’t even look—ooh!” She cranes her neck to meet his eyes and blinks up at him, smile stretching sudden and dimpling her face along the way. “Ooh, you’ve gotta be my new neighbor. I’m Rita! I’m across the hall in number 9.”

He speaks past the pillow, “Miss Rita, it’s lovely to meet you. I’m Shah—Perseus Shah. New to Mars and even newer to this building. And may I say: if my neighbors are even half as lovely as you, I’ve chosen well indeed.”

“Flatterer. But I ain’t complaining. Here, let me help.” And she unloads two of the bags from the twists of his fingers without a pause within which he could protest. “I’ll be late, but so will the boss. And I see him any old day, it’s not every day you meet a neighbor and a gentleman.”

“Now who’s the flatterer, Miss Rita? You must tell me, what do you do?”

“Oh, just run a detective agency. The Rita and Steel Detective Agency! The boss helps, I guess.”

It’s Perseus Shah who smiles like a fox. “What an utterly wonderful coincidence, Miss Rita. Would you believe it? Detective work just so happens to be an interest of mine. My first love, one might say. But I’ve come to Hyperion City on a new venture—I wonder if you might know anyone who’d be interested? Let me tell you about it:”

* * *

Rita’s in late and, yeah. Put another one on the books: she’s always right. Because Mister Steel’s nowhere to be found and even AFTER she sat and shared breakfast with Mister Shah and listened to him talk about dancing all morning like he wanted to sell her a thousand pair of pointe shoes. As if they both didn’t know she was probably too clumsy to even think about it, really. But maybe not. Maybe he's the kind of fella who'd teach anyone, who doesn’t care about who might make it big but about passion. He talked a big game about passion. She couldn’t figure out if he believed himself or not. Anyway, he’s teaching kids and she really doesn’t know any of those. So maybe it’s passion and not salesmanship that had him talking about it through bites of cereal. He’s a funny guy. Too fancy for the apartment he lives in, too fancy to apologize shamefaced for only owning one bowl. Too fancy to sit at the dining room table and share the bowl with her even though they’d just met and she coulda grabbed one from her place with no problem at all. That’s probably what made her like him, really. He didn’t have much at all, and he just shared like it was no thing. It’s hard not to like people like that.

The boss slams the door on his way in. She’s guessing he got in a good lungful of air before opening it, ‘cause when he says her name, it’s a bellow. “Rita!”

She looks at him. Mister Steel’s not big on grace, but he’s at least got enough to look embarrassed. “Sorry. Thought you had your streams on. Why don’t you?”

“None of your business, boss.” And it’s not. He’s late! Really late. And he looks clean and freshly shaved and he ain’t bleeding—so where’s he been? “Where’ve you been, huh?”

“None of your business, Rita.”

And okay. Sure. She waves a hand in the air _fair enough_ and lets him know: “Yeah, well. Speaking of things that _are_ your business: you might wanna call Mx. Archer-Ramos about that case. They don’t wanna talk to me again, they think you’ve got something new to tell ‘em.”

“More trouble than they’re worth if they don’t believe you.”

“That’s so sweet, boss. But I wanna get paid. Guess what?”

“What?” She’s never seen someone fix a grumpier cup of coffee.

“Got a new neighbor. He’s _real_ handsome. He’s across the hall, ain’t that nice? We ate breakfast, which you woulda known if you were on time, ‘cause I sure wasn’t.”

Mister Steel squints her way. “Thought that smelly old lady lived across the hall.”

“That’s rude, boss. She smelled fine! And anyway, she died three years ago. Which did _not_ smell so fine, but that ain’t her fault and we ought to have more respect. Then there was that young couple, but they moved out after their second kid.”

“Gross. The kids, not the dead lady. Anyway, what, you making moves on this guy?”

She thinks about it. Kissing someone that tall would be a lot of work. And anyway—”Nah, but it’s nice, right? Having breakfast with a good-looking guy.”

He sits down heavy in the seat in front of her desk they keep for overwrought clients. He puts his mug on her desk, his elbows on his knees, and his face in his hands: a really good impersonation of an overwrought client. “Yeah. Yeah, Rita, it is nice.”

“Boss? You gonna tell me what’s wrong?”

He sniffs. Not tears, just one big, sort of gross sniff. “Nothing. Spent the night getting Mercury out of some hole again, same old shit. Passed out when I got home, woke up late. Nothing’s wrong.”

Meaning: Mister Steel had to go to Oldtown and it got him more depressed than usual and he didn’t even drink much about it. And with Mister Mercury, that was unusual at best. The boss’s eyelids droop over his eyes anyway, and he’s slumped low and hopeless in the chair.

“Well, boss, we gotta go get an update for Mx. Archer-Ramos, huh?” He looks at her, flat. He’s not convinced. That’s fine, she can sell him on it. She wonders how he’d react to the salesman-slick but weirdly earnest way Perseus Shah sells an idea. There’s one problem there, though, and it’s a pretty big one: he’s selling pointe shoes. “Come on, let’s get something real juicy, boss. I think the son did it. And then I’ll call them and tell ‘em you’re out being boring, but BOY have I got a doozy. And then they’ll have to understand that one gal runs this show and it’s RITA.”

He’s smiling by the end. The tiny one that’s gone in a second. She’ll take it. “Yeah. All right, Rita, twist my arm. I’ll try and hunt something down for them soon, huh? I’ve gotta go figure out Julian’s thing. Be ready for my call. No streams.”

“Yeah, yeah, boss. Always ready, ain’t I?”

* * *

It’s a delight to be active again, to stretch and pose and aim for precise control over his body. Perseus Shah is graceful, has always been graceful. But as detective, he only got to be picturesque in a holmesian way: a turn of the gaze, a click of the heel, an arch of the eyebrow. This incarnation of Shah has a barre and looks excellent stretching in a grand plié. The problem arises when he reaches the end of his knowledge, which is, oh. About now.

He still looks the part. That much, at least, he can control.

In the two weeks since his arrival, the promotional materials have gone out: demographically-targeted comms and stream ads as well as a mailer campaign restricted to those residences he cased remotely prior to arriving on Mars. All using stock images, of course. He received some tentative interest and several promises to call back upon opening. On top of that, there are a fair number of curious passers-by and business owners wandering into the studio space to meet the new tenant.

“Been vacant a long time. Glad it’s getting cleaned up,” says one barber from two doors down upon his extended visit. That’s the prevailing thought among the chatty brigade of local business owners, that this studio could use life in it, could stand to look more hospitable. They punctuate the sentiment with pats to his shoulder and sincere well-wishes. It is nearly a dangerous thing—not only for the integrity of the con, but because it has been a stretch of time since anyone was happy to see—happy to see _him_ —simply living and breathing in a space.

He takes a deep breath and Perseus Shah lets it out. People are often happy to see Perseus Shah.

One person, at least, is happy to see him. He has not made much headway with _charming the neighbors_ with the exception of the delightful Miss Rita. They’ve had four movie nights thus far and he’s found her tastes in streams to be. . . Well, mediocre. But her insight into them, unparalleled. Truly, the woman has a remarkable mind. If she chose, she’d be well suited to—

Well. Perseus Shah thinks she’s wonderful. He recalls tendu and imitates the shape of it, back, side, and front. He watches his reflection carefully for flaws. Surely there are flaws, he’s an amateur. But if he can convince himself he’s perfect, so too can he convince the parents of children. And the children themselves? Nothing easier. 

He practices again and again, the same basic moves. He’s looked up positions of the body, feet, and arms. He sits and watches clips of professionals showing off. He practices them to exhaustion, to perfection. To imitation.

When he shakes with it all the way down to his fingers and toes, he stops. He paces a trail through the studio. It’s a narrow, small thing—only an office, basic facilities, and a dressing room in addition to the studio floor—the best his money could reasonably rent in this area. Per the neighborhood gossips, it’d been the focus and eventual death of several artists’ big-time dreams. A cred pit. He’d gone fishing through the cabinets and drawers and all the small, strange places in a building where one might find interesting things. And Detective Shah found evidence of their claims: a painting of a delicately-boned woman with skin like porcelain and a dress like gold in gorgeous arabesque, an often-folded picture of a family of three, a handful of collectible coins, several children’s toys, a locker of lost-and-found clothing, a data drive of dance recitals long-past. All of these but the clothes and coins in his locker for now. The coins he adds to the commotion of his pocket.

He’s promised to bring home takeout for the long-suffering Miss Rita, who is quite obviously treated abominably by her employer and also obviously loves him very much. Two cartons of cricket pad thai and an order of dumplings later, he knocks on her door, gives her the food, and begs her to wait till he showers.

“I’m terribly sweaty, I can barely stand to be seen now,” he says. “Only you know I’ll manage to incinerate the stuff if I so much as look at the warming setting on my oven.”

“Mister Shah, don’t you think about it. Go shower. You’re right, you smell.” Horrifying. “Get back here quick, okay? They’ve got an Andromeda special on tonight and that’s banned at the office. I won’t be able to catch the reruns, so it’s tonight or never, you hear me?”

He does and he does. He’s back at hers in silk pajamas and wet hair in a half-hour. She’s got his food ready and steaming and he walks in just in time to catch the Northstar logo. She does her own nails and, once he’s done eating, offers to do his.

A man could get used to this.

Alas, he is no one but Perseus Shah. And _he_ is nothing much more than a man with an expiration date.

* * *

 _Mister Shah_ this, _Mister Shah_ that.

It’s really getting old. What’s so great about this guy, anyway?

If he’s honest, what he _really_ doesn’t like is Rita lying to him. She never does that, never about anything like this. Is she watching streams in the office? Obviously. Does she have trouble with right and left? _Obviously._ They both know that, it’s all fine. But she’s got this new neighbor and they’re best friends and they love each other—whatever. What Juno Steel wants to know is: what even does the guy do all day?

Because that’s the question Rita dodges. It took some time, some observation to figure it out. But if he can’t detect that much, what are any of them doing here? He knows the guy’s take out order, the color of his eyes, and what he thinks of each of the goddamn Andromeda films. But he doesn’t know his _job_ , which wouldn’t be nearly so frustrating if Rita didn’t talk around it all the time.

“He’s more fit since he moved in, boss, you should see him. It’s all that hard work he’s putting in.”

“I helped him paint his new work space. What? No, I don’t know how to paint a wall, boss. It was, y’know. Moral support.”

“Mister Steel, whaddya think of grand opening parties? We never had one, huh? Mister Shah is thinking—”

“Rita.” Juno bites her name right out of the air. “What does Perseus Shah _do?_ ”

“Boss,” she says, pitched high and faster than usual. “He’s got ads on all kinds of streams. For a detective, you sure don’t know how to look it up, huh?”

And he doesn’t say, _Well, I thought my secretary might tell me of her own free will._ Instead, he stalks to his office, turns on his computer, double-clicks the icon she told him to use to search things, and punches it in letter-by-letter.

And feels like a big asshole. Again. It’s his hobby these days, ever since Anthony DiMaggio showed up in his own bed, bathed in red light with a hole scorched between his eyes. Ever since he and Strong so totally failed to find anything in that warehouse to clear Julian’s name. Place was scrubbed clean by the time they found it and now Julian’s stuck in Hoosegow, leaking creds left and right, mourning his husband, and dodging Juno’s calls in his free time. Can he blame the guy? No. Juno Steel hears from himself all the time, and he’d love it if the dame would shut up every once in a while.

So he asks his computer a stupid question and gets the stupidest—just, really, the _worst_ —answer he could never imagine.

He should’ve seen it coming, some detective.

“Rita.”

“Yeah, boss?”

“I—I don’t want to go to Shah’s grand opening.”

She comes to his office door and leans against the frame. “Wasn’t asking you to, boss. You ain’t invited.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

“Boss.” She comes close but she doesn’t touch him. Her hand falls next to his on the arm of his chair. “I’m not asking you to go to his studio. Period. You got it?” She doesn’t touch him. “Nowhere near it, not even in the neighborhood. You wanna go, I’m there with you. But I’m not asking you to any grand opening, you hear me?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I—” His breath comes out a sigh. His shoulders sit somewhere around his ears and he can taste the words on his lips: _Rita, you_ _’re fired._ But what if she doesn’t—what if—? It’s stupid.

She really likes this Shah guy. What if he fires her and she takes the opportunity to believe him for once?

“Boss. Quit being stupid about it, okay?” And she covers his wrist with her hand and just holds it till he shakes her off, till he pushes away from the desk and stands.

There’s a trail to follow to a cheating spouse on the west side of town—nothing glamorous or good, but it’ll get him creds. And there are creds to be spent in a bar between the cheater’s go-to hourly haunt and his apartment. And if he can drink till he forgets a building stands or _ever_ stood at the address of Perseus Shah’s studio, well. Mission accomplished. Everyone’ll be happier for it.

* * *

They’ve got all her craft materials spread across her table and they’re making the _cutest_ name tags for his prospective class roster—her idea, she’s got the good ones—when her comms ring. Instinct and her own two eyes tell her it’s the boss. She makes grabby hands for her laptop as she answers and Mister Shah, lovely man he is, slides it over, pronto.

“Hey, boss. Whatcha up to?”

“Rita!” There’s an alarm going in the background and she can’t hardly hear him at all but there’s no need, she’s got him. She tracks his comms, gets the address, and gets to work.

“All _right_ boss, I’m on it. Yeah, yeah, I hear you yellin’. Alarm’ll be off in a second. Thought you weren’t working tonight? Got it. Cameras down, too. Need me to get you a coffee while I’m at it? Wouldn’t want you to have to lift a finger or nothing. Yeah, yeah, boss. I know what finger you’re lifting and **you** know I’m the best. Have a good night, now.”

“What on earth did you just do?” Mister Shah’s eyes shine wide behind the glasses, his fingers limp and his uncapped marker dropped on the table top. He’s looking at her like she just pulled entire diamonds out of her ears and mouth.

“We’re on Mars, Mister Shah, don’t know if you’ve noticed yet.” She caps the marker and slides it back into his grip. His fingers close around it but his face doesn’t change even a bit. “Just a little hacking. Mister Steel ain’t always so careful about tripping alarms. I really think I’ve got him spoiled.”

Mister Shah opens his mouth to say something and Rita watches him change his mind mid-breath. What comes out is: “You are a wonder. I’m beginning to think you’re positively wasted on that boss of yours.”

“Ain’t like that.” Really ain’t. She needs him, too. Nothing makes it clearer than times like these, where someone she likes looks at her and sees someone—no, some _thing_ —new just cause she can work a computer. ‘Cause most people ain’t got it in ‘em to realize the Rita watching streams, the Rita daintily sucking salmon-flavored dust off her fingers, the Rita who sometimes loses track of her volume, her sentences, her hands, the Rita hacking Dark Matters. . . All of it: same ole Rita. Mister Steel always has, though, pretty much from the beginning. And so he needs a little—nah, he needs a LOT of help. She’s good at helping. It can be fun, like shutting off security systems or wrestling him in front of a monitor to watch a stream or five. And even when it really ain’t—when it’s watching the boss get hurt or crawl into a bottle or spend days staring at a wall from his office sofa—

“He’s my friend.” And he is. He’d maybe say something hurtful if she said so to his face, but he’d feel awful after. He’d find something to fire her over only to hear her forgive him out loud. And yeah, maybe it means he’s a bad friend, that he’s self-centered and that she deserves better. But he’s so, so sad. She’s never seen someone so sad in all her life. And even with that, he’s trying. He tries for her every day. He keeps trying, she’ll hold out for the day he succeeds. That’s the whole point of it all.

“I’m sorry,” he says and she blinks at him. ‘Cause if she didn’t know any better, she’d say he became someone else just then. But then again, it’s no one but Mister Shah who laughs like a charmer, who speaks: “I didn’t realize. The way you talk about him—well, I thought it was simply a professional relationship. I was mistaken, clearly.”

“You didn’t really, did you? We’ve been friends for a little while now, Mister Shah. Do I really talk about the boss like that? Strictly professional?”

“I thought you’ve known your Mr. Steel for quite some time.”

It’s glitter on a name tag, one after the other. She got bored after her third and now she’s cranking ‘em out. But Mister Shah is painting out the name _Clover_ with all the care and precision of, well, a painter. “Well, yeah. Nearly fifteen years now. Why?”

“You said you’ve been friends _a little while_ , I’d assumed—”

“Mister Shah.” She laughs and laughs. “I was talking about you!”

And there he is again. Perseus Shah goes a little more real right in front of her. He turns into a man she can imagine sharing a bowl of cereal with. It’s something slack in his jaw, something shocked behind his eyes. “I’m—of course. Miss Rita, of course we’re friends.”

How lonely’s a guy gotta be?

* * *

Just one more thing before bed. It’s important. It’d gotten him all the way here from the bar by way of a taxi first and a long walk once the cabbie decided he looked a little too close to hurling in the backseat.

Nice to see a proactive entrepreneur in Hyperion City these days.

He _didn_ _’t_ hurl in the back of the taxi, thank you very much. But he did on the sidewalk. And in only about fifteen of the, oh—thousands? Millions? Who knows?—paces between the cab driver’s breaking point and Rita’s front door, he tripped his way off the curb into a puddle, soaked his pants from knee to ankle, _and_ landed badly on a rock.

All of this is no excuse. Of course it’s not an excuse. It might be an explanation, though.

“RITA.” If the evening finds Juno Steel all but throwing himself against Rita’s door, well. Blame Mick Mercury, the cabbie, a puddle, a rock. In that order. He always does. “Rita. Come out, I have to tell you—the thing. I found the thing. If you don’t get out here, I’m telling them! I’ll tell them and then—” He blinks. “And then. Then you can’t tell them, I did. Did I? I don’t think I did, Rita. Who the fuck are you?”

This, aimed at the sharp, handsome man across the hall aiming a very sharp, handsome look his way. “You. Are wearing a lot of silk.” He is, cap to slippers. “You’re the guy. The one she won’t shut up about.”

“And you must be Miss Rita’s Mr. Steel.” If looks could kill, he’d be dead on the floor. Better luck next time, maybe. “I don’t suppose _you_ would mind shutting up? Some of us would enjoy sleeping, oh, any time tonight. And Miss Rita is very clearly not home.”

“Got a date? Good for her.” Floor looks nice. He lets himself drop, back to her door, in a move that _feels_ like it should be pretty smooth. But he does hit his ass pretty hard on impact, so. Probably not. “S’all right. This is good, I’m good here.” He closes his eyes.

Fingers wrap around his biceps tight enough to bruise. Or maybe he’s just feeling a little sensitive. “You are not. Are you even a little aware how much this will upset her?” The mean man smells—well, not to be weird about it, but he smells amazing. But _ow_. The guy—what’s his name?—hauls Juno upright by the arms, drags him bodily inside his apartment, and deposits him in a chair pulled out from the kitchenette’s table.

Huh.

“Don’t push your luck, buddy, I’ve only puked once tonight. Plenty left to go. And this? This is nothing. I upset her more on—on a Tuesday.”

 _Buddy_ , the guy mouths to himself, eyebrows gathered in the center of his face. Nice face. Rita wasn’t kidding. He turns to the cabinet, grabs a glass, and fills it with water. “It,” he starts slowly, “is a Tuesday. Because it is three in the morning, Mr. Steel.” He places the glass on the table.

“Ugh.” The man moves _hilariously_ quickly for the garbage can, which is stupid. That wasn’t a sick noise, just a: “Ugh, it’s Juno to you. Quit it already, only Rita’s getting away with that.”

“Juno.” That sounds nicer than it usually does from someone this annoyed with him. “Juno Steel. Your knee seems to be bleeding.”

“Aw, shit.” He goes for the stiff, still-damp cuff of his pants first, which just doesn’t work. He starts for his belt, but the man bats at his hands. “What do you want me to do about it, then?”

He gets an exaggerated roll of dark eyes behind glasses. The man kneels and pointedly rolls the cuff without trouble. He rolls it past the top of Juno’s patterned sock and past the scar where an actual bullet exited his calf at a weird angle during a firefight with some goons who thought they were old earth mafia. And he keeps rolling it, past the bullet’s entrance higher up on the other side. When he rolls it past the knob of Juno’s knee, the pain hits. “Ow. Ow! Why does that hurt so bad?”

“I think perhaps the—” he _sniffs_. Weirdo. “—whiskey makes you sensitive, my dear detective. It’s mostly bruised, I think. I’m afraid I don’t have any bandages, but I will clean it. Whatever did you do?”

“Fell. On a rock. In a puddle. In the street, I think. Cleaning it’s probably smart, huh? Hey, I’m having a theory.”

“Do try not to hurt yourself.”

He swipes his hand in the direction of the water glass. Got it in one. He drinks. “Think Rita only likes mean people. That’s how she got saddled with us.”

The water’s cold. Where the man cleans his cut, it burns. Juno closes his eyes.

“By my estimation, I’m being quite kind. Unless you’d prefer I stop?” But he sounds sad, not mean. Mean with the sad hiding underneath. Juno knows about that.

“Don’t wanna, though. You’d rather be mean. World’s mean, it’s easier when you are, too.”

“Juno Steel.” And, hm. He blinks his eyes open. Some of that sharpness around the guy’s face is gone. Might just be the good, old fuzziness that comes with a couple friendly bonks to the head followed by a bar crawl with Mercury, but there’s something different there. “I think you might just stop talking if you fall asleep. If that means I have to forego use of my bed for the night, so be it. I’ll warn you: if you vomit in my home, I _will_ throw you outside.”

“ _Shut up, Juno. Get out of my house, Juno._ You’re starting to sound a lot like my Ma, if only she talked like one of Rita’s regency streams. Who even are you?”

And it’s no one’s fault but his own. Because he’s drunk and his brain’s been a little scrambled and _he_ did it. He’s the one who invoked her ghost, invited her in. This guy doesn’t sound like her, not really. It’s just that a lot of people spend a lot of time telling Juno Steel to shut up, and sometimes comparing them to Ma makes them stop.

He’d really love it if they just all stopped.

So, the room’s spinning and he’s thinking of Sarah. And when glasses raises his manicured hand towards the table top—to lever himself up from the floor, of course that’s what he’s doing. Come on, Steel—when that happens, well. Juno maybe flinches. Just, you know. A little.

There’s an embarrassing pause he just has to live in for a moment. Then the man—Shah, his name is Shah—says, “I’m going to help you up now.” And he does.

For what it’s worth, Juno Steel just shuts up.

* * *

She’s walking on air. A lady doesn’t kiss and tell, but it was a good night. A great night! She’s headed home in yesterday’s duds, sure, but she definitely ain’t ashamed about it.

She gets to hold on to that feeling till she unlocks her door to find Mister Shah passed out on her couch. It’s not the _worst_ bucket of ice water she’s had thrown her way, but—

He’s awake in a blink, just from the click of the door. He looks awful by his own picky standards: an overlarge shirt and comfy pants, no makeup, eyes hauling bags for a family of four. He pulls his hand out from under a cushion and goes from reclined to seated in something like a smooth roll. He puts on his glasses. And speaking of ice water: “Something of yours came knocking last night, my dear. I put him to bed after he finished being sick. He was fine for quite a while, so I came here to sleep.” Guilt or something like it dances across his face. “Ah. I bypassed the lock. It still works, and of course I locked myself in—”

She interrupts by rushing forward and grabbing him all up in a hug. He’s probably just tired enough not to dodge it, ‘cause he stiffens in her arms. Oops. She pulls away. “Mister Shah? Sorry, shoulda asked. But thank you, thank you, thank you!” And, ooh, she means it. “I mean it. Is your place open? Can we go check on him?”

“Yes, let’s. Ah, Miss Rita—” Ooh, boy. What’s he done, now? “Is Juno—is he quite all right? Apart from the hangover, I mean.”

Now there’s a question. She thinks about it.

“Chances are, no,” she says. “When he’s real bad, he usually tries to deal with it all on his own. Sometimes at home, sometimes at the office. He almost never ends up here. So something’s weird. And I ain’t here to gossip about the boss, okay? But he’s a tough lady. It hasn’t been all that great for him, but he usually goes it alone no matter what I say. So no, he’s probably not so good. I think we should both go see him now, if you don’t mind. You’ve done an awful lot already, Mister Shah. It’s all right if you do mind. Really.”

“Of course I’ll join you.” He stands and it hits her then how weird it is. He went from sleeping to walking and talking in hardly a moment, just blinked those eyes of his awake and stood without so much as a stretch and yawn. He takes the lead and she follows him across the hall. He opens the door slowly, noisily.

His apartment looks only a teeny bit more lived-in than when she came over for breakfast that first day. He does have some pretty flowers in water sitting on the cloth-less table. But other than that, it’s all stock furniture and bare lighting. No wonder he’s always over at her place. “Boss?” She yells it because she knows her Mister Steel. He doesn’t like surprises or slow wake-up calls. “Boss, you in here?”

The exaggerated groan from the bedroom is enough of an answer, but he’s in a sharing mood today: “Rita, I’ll fire you right now, I swear to god.”

“All right, boss.” She glances at Mister Shah and he shoos her towards the bedroom. She goes for the door. “Only you’re in my neighbor friend’s actual bed right now. I can see how you mistook it for the office, but it’s about time to get up and go, you know?”

He has his entire head under Mister Shah’s pillow like one of those big earth birds in the sand. She sits on the bed and looks up at Mister Shah, who’s decided to haunt the doorway.

“How big an idiot did I make of myself, Rita?” He’s got his fingers all twisted up in the pillowcase, the irony in his tone all twisted up in some actual angst. He’s missing his coat and shoes. She touches his back, just barely. He doesn’t love it, being touched. But when he’s hurting real bad, this can be okay for a little while.

“Don’t know, boss. Mister Shah ain’t said a word against you.”

“Didn’t even say that I yakked all over his robe?”

The look on Mister Shah’s face goes stormy and Rita REALLY has to hold it all in. It’s just an awful lot. None of it funny, except in the horrible way it kind of is. “Didn’t say a word, Mister Steel. I swear.” And she turns to Mister Shah and shoos him away with her free hand. Sure, it’s his bedroom. But this is _her_ boss and maybe he deserves a lot of things, but humiliation isn’t really one of ‘em, not about this. Once they’re alone, she asks: “So, what happened? It’s not that I ain’t happy to see you bright and early, boss. It’s only that you never come and see me at home.”

The boss pulls his head out from under the pillow and looks her way. It’s awful, the way his eyes get. Like there’s nothing at all behind ‘em. “You know he’s got a knife in his bed frame?” And the boss reaches sideways and down and pulls out a wicked looking thing, sharp and shiny and apparently just sleeping right there next to Mister Shah every night.

“This is a nice neighborhood, Mister Steel!”

“I know. Trust me, took the walking tour last night. Rita, this thing’s nice. Like, _more creds than I make in a month_ nice. And he’s a dance instructor?”

“Boss, I don’t know what’s happening here. You need something for your head? Some water? You passed out in my neighbor’s bed and you’re talking like you found a case tucked in between the sheets.”

He shrugs her hand off—moment’s over—sits up and looks ashamed again. “I’m fine. He, uh. He got me some stuff before he left. I’ve been rallying for a while. Where did he go? I didn’t see a couch.”

“My couch, boss. What kind of stuff?”

“I’m saying I’m fine, Rita. Are _you_ saying he broke into your apartment?”

“Huh, guess he did. Said sorry, though.”

“Oh, as long as he said _sorry_.” He does half an exaggerated sweep of the arm with his knife hand before he reels himself in. He grimaces at her like it’s all her fault.

“Actually, now I’m thinking about it: don’t think he said sorry. I hugged him first. Quit pouting, boss.”

“Rita, this guy’s bad news. And you’re hugging him for breaking in?”

“For taking care of _you_.” A pause. “He ain’t even a dance instructor yet. He’s opening the place next weekend. He used to be a detective.”

He jumps right in: “Well, that might excuse the kind of paranoia you need to sleep with this close enough to grab. But the capital to open an entire business? And, Rita, you said it yourself: this is a nice neighborhood. How’s he paying for all that, huh? And—and the studio in Halcyon? It’s not cheap, you know. Haven’t looked it up in years, but it wasn’t cheap then and I’m betting it isn’t any cheaper now.” During this, his eyes’d gone as sharp as the blade in his hand. But here they go somewhere far away. They empty right out. “Coulda saved for decades and he’d never have the creds, I kept telling him. And this guy just waltzes—sorry, _pirouettes_ —in and buys it up? I don’t like it.”

“Boss. Let’s get out of his place before you badmouth him, huh? I’m hearing you, but I think you’ve gotta consider you’ve got some personal reasons to not like it so much. And _I_ like him. He’s funny. Unlike _some_ people, he’ll watch every Northstar movie, and—”

“Rita. You’ll make me barf again, quit it already. I get it, he’s your soul mate.” He twists and places the knife carefully. He adjusts it, eyes narrowed. “Let’s go, then. I’m sick of all this.”

 _Boss._ She wants to say: _I_ _’ve stuck with you for fifteen whole years now and you won’t be rid of me yet. Boss, I’m sorry you ever had to know that anyone but your brother bought that studio. Boss, I love you, you know that? Even if you won’t watch streams with me or ask how my date went or trust me when I say_ I _trust him; it_ _’s you and me. Boss, you’ve been scaring me. For a long, long time and lately, too._

“Boss,” she says. He wouldn’t believe a word of it, nothing but those last couple sentences. “You’ve gotta thank Mister Shah. I’ve gotta shower. And then, sure. We’ll go.”

He stands, small without his coat. The morning drags him down around the shoulders, just as sure as she started hers with a spring in her step. He looks like he aged years in a night, but a shower and coffee might help some. She can try and give that much. Will he take it? Probably the coffee. At least the coffee. His nosy detective’s eyes flit around Mister Shah’s space and land on his own coat, hanging in the open and nearly empty closet with his shoes sitting pretty on the floor beneath it. He pulls it on and pats the pockets. “Oh,” he says, voice tinier than the boss is usually capable of. “Had to tell you. Finally cracked the Archer-Ramos case. Their kid tried to crack my skull, but I got a couple shots of the documents first. He stole them, just like you thought. That’s why—I wanted to—whatever.” He hunches over and hooks his fingers in the heels of his shoes before he stands, slow. “Whatever.” A long, long exhale. His eyes stick to the floor. He’d been thinking of her, huh? “Yeah. I’ll go grovel. Come on, Rita.”

* * *

He knows what he wants, what he’s toiled to bring out of the space. It’s something to do with the light grain of synthetic birch that makes up the floor. Something to do with the long window set high into the wall, letting in dome-light that shifts from sunny to dust storm to neon with the whims of the city and the turn of the hour. He schedules the grand opening for midday on a weekend and decorates in whites. Mars bows to his vision and produces the prettiest beams to shine through the high windows, the sort that might catch dust motes and hold them like stars.

If, of course, there are any dust motes to be found in the studio in a few hours’ time. Perseus Shah or someone very like him brushes his hair back into place. He’d rather tried to eliminate them entirely, but they do tend to be sticky things.

“Something to it, huh? Little bit of elbow grease?” Rita perches in the carpeted entryway of the space atop a high canvas chair he’d found in a closet, a queen on her throne.

“Mm. Yes, dear. It is strange, isn’t it? How we’ve had this weekend cleaning date—what is it, six times now? And I haven’t seen you do much cleaning at all.” He unrolls his sleeves and buttons them again at the wrists. He has a change of clothes in the locker he’d claimed for his own, naturally. But still, the fine dress shirt had been a gift to, oh—someone he’d been, once. He ought to take good care of it, in memoriam.

“Hey, I got an invitation. Came on my comms and everything. I think that means I get to kick back and taste the canapes, right?” She does it right that moment, crosses her legs at the knee with an uncontrolled kick. It pushes her backward in the chair. The stilt-like legs of the thing give a wobble echoed by his own clumsy lunge forward to steady her. The chair keeps its feet, he doesn’t, and she laughs and laughs as he hits the floor.

She hops down and offers a hand to him and his dignity. “My white knight. You okay? You’d catch me if I fell, huh? Wasn’t fast enough to catch you, but I guess I’ll help you up.” She does, and once he’s upright she treats him to a critical up-and-down. “You brought a change of clothes, right?”

Perseus Shah enjoys laughing. He even enjoys laughing at himself. But that man is entirely overwhelmed, and it’s just him left standing here with her hand warm in his and no one remaining to fill the shoes on his feet. She drops his hand. “Of course I did.” A theatrical shudder because it will make her laugh. She does. “This, really? After crawling around chasing dust? I need to roll out that mat we’ve rented. These floors need to be protected, and I certainly won’t be the only one in heels.”

She’s not in heels yet; she’d obligingly slipped them off at the door without so much as a word from him. She’s wearing a trendy jumpsuit the color of a resort sea and cheap synthetic opals at her earlobes and throat. She’s dressed up and sparkling with it; she hasn’t stopped smiling since she arrived. “All those swanky folks, huh, Mister Shah?” The name a shock to the system. “And kids. Kids, Mister Shah,” she says, something like skepticism lingering around the fall of his name and the rise of her eyebrows. “Are _you_ any good with kids? You’ve gotta be, that’s the job, right?”

“That is the job. I tend to excel at the jobs I take up, my dear.”

“I’m thinking of a popcorn incident, here. Thinking of a fire alarm, thinking of some nasty goop from an expired—”

“Snacks—” He crosses the studio floor to the entry stacked with rented folding tables, food under warmers, and remnants of the morning’s myriad chores. He heaves a roll of rubberized floor cover over a shoulder and across his back. “Are not a job.”

“Ain’t doing them right, then. We’ve really gotta get you serious about your snacks. Not to be nosy but, well, I am: how’re you paying for all this? I saw that menu and it did _not_ look cheap, mister. And I know you didn’t make any of it, don’t even try and tell me you did. You rich? You got a secret twin? You got a secret, rich twin who can cook?”

“Mm, no.” It’s effort to move with the thing slung across his shoulders, to place it on the edge of the studio’s open space, and to do it all with even breaths. He’s able to mask the tremble in his arms as he turns, conspiratorial, her way. “First week up front, you see.”

“No way, no way!” If he’d impressed her in the least with his strength, it’s lost in her wonder at the numbers. “So: Halcyon studio space, Halcyon catering for—forty-five was the magic number, right?—all that, AND don’t think I’ve missed that those two tablecloths are real, actual linen. How much per kid per week?” And when he flashes her a discreet two fingers, a v for victory, she gasps. “Mister Shah, that’s highway robbery!” And he laughs at that, of course he does. “How do people get that rich, huh? Can’t imagine being that rich, not ever.”

“In my defense, I do need a tablecloth. Linen holds up well, doesn’t it? And if I can get comfortable taking the creds of those willing to spend two-thousand every week on their darling offspring’s hobbies, well. I most certainly will. I am providing a service, aren’t I?”

She nods with the vigor of someone whose paycheck comes from the wallets of the wealthy when it isn’t waived for work pro bono.

She says, “Lesson one of snacking, Mister Shah: expensive white tablecloths are no good.”

And to that piece of wisdom, Perseus Shah can only choke and expire early and oh-so-ridiculously on the laughter of a seventeen-year-old boy without a name.

 _Lesson one_ , indeed.

It is so strange a place, this studio. So strange a place for him to stand, to shiver slightly, and to be so entirely Peter Nureyev.

Here he is: a man almost twenty years buried. Has he clawed upward at dirt on occasion? Certainly. Lately he’s even poked himself holes for air, broken into the world with curled fingers that this woman held in her own till they relaxed, till she could file the nails and paint them carefully. But here’s his first chance to blink awake in the light of day, and oh. Isn’t it poorly timed?

He covers his face against it for a moment and stifles the helpless laughter that brought him here.

“Mister Shah?” Hearing that name does nothing at all to summon the dancing detective. Tragic. “Thanks and all, but it wasn’t that funny. You gonna unroll that thing? You don’t need like—actual help, right? I would, only I ain’t dressed for manual labor so much.”

“I’m quite all right. Thank you, Rita,” says Peter Nureyev. He kneels and aligns the mat before rolling the thing across the studio floor. It’s well-measured and it only just hits the opposite wall as it unfurls. He has to push his glasses up his face to wipe at his eyes. He stands again and begins work on the tables, letting her fill his silence the way only she can. Once everything is in its place, he turns to her with his best approximation of Shah. “Well? Shall I put on my party shoes?” The answer, naturally, is yes. He leaves her for the tiny locker room and allows himself a moment’s unraveling in the process of getting dressed.

Perseus Shah, as a concept, was never meant to seduce. He was only what he needed to be. On Triton and a few times before, he’d been a scare tactic disguised as ace detective—the erudite and excitable sort with a brain working fifteen full steps ahead of average. His clothes reflected his type depending on the job. Judiciously applied tweed worked exceptionally well for residences. Police departments liked the disheveled sort of mismatch that came from using up all one’s thoughts for problem-solving rather than dress. Both of these a uniform to get him in there door. From there, he applied layers of flash and misdirection until he got an opportunity to palm his target or, better yet, for the mark to place it in his gloved hands.

Another thought occurs as he unbuttons his shirtsleeves and toes off his slippers: there is a specific look Perseus Shah never tried on for size. He’d never ventured towards grim-mouthed and rough-handed. He’d never tried on a well-worn trench coat and whiskey breath. Peter spares a thought for the actual detective in question. It would never have worked for Shah; Peter Nureyev knows his limits and he simply isn’t capable of making his eyes look so—well. That long evening, Juno Steel’s eyes were so very. . .

Irrelevant. Regardless, Hyperion City was certainly Shah’s first turn as dance instructor. For the opening, he’d decided on a functional set of workout clothes over footless tights. These, paired with designer heels expensive enough to intrigue even the most judgmental guardians of Halcyon’s young dancers. Those, at least, Peter dons with some relish.

There is a difference in being and seeming. Rita has snapped him completely out of his ability to _be_ Shah and no one else.

But if he doesn’t have the skill to _seem_ , what is he doing in this line of work? It’s a setback, but he’s completed more complex heists under less favorable conditions. Peter Nureyev does Shah’s makeup in the mirror set opposite the lockers with a steady hand. He has no trouble meeting his own eye.

* * *

He’s been gone a while. He’s been gone a while and she’s set out the food as much as she’s really comfortable with. She’s got an eye for organization when it’s fun, but not everyone’s a fan of her style. Mister Steel calls it ‘not organized, actually. Not even a little bit.’ But he’s a big ole jerk and Rita’s doing fine the way she is. It’s not that she’s messy—she just ain’t _picky_. Mister Shah is. What do you want from her? Everyone’s got flaws, and him? Well, he’s picky.

Picky and acting strange. She can imagine the types of strange people could come across on opening day, on maybe the most important day of their little artistic life: she’s seen nerves, regret, fear all played out again and again by actors on screens. Some of ‘em great, some of them awful, some of them boring. And some of them really no good at all, but fun enough to make up for it.

And she’s one half of a dynamic detective duo. You sometimes learn to read people there, too.

What she’s getting at: he’s acting weird, and it doesn’t track with any normal brands of weird or with the guy he’s been for the whole month and change she’s known him. So she’s worried and she’s gonna go find him, even if it means barging in a little. He’s had plenty of time to get changed, so she’ll just knock real loud and it’ll all be fine.

She goes. She knocks. “Rita?” he calls.

And that’s another thing. Because she’s known him for a month and change and every time he’s said her name, it’s been _Miss Rita_. And it’s cute, ‘cause he’s Mister Shah and they make a little matched set. Normally she wouldn’t love it, the constant pet names. But he’d charmed her some from the start and he ain’t a creep about it. So now she’s noticing that he stopped. He stopped all of a sudden, just a minute ago. Same time he started acting different. 

Ooh, she’s going full Mister Steel with this one. She oughta settle down. He’s her friend and she’s worried, that’s all.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s me. Let me in if you’re decent, I’m bored.” He unlocks the door with his eyes squinted, an arm of his glasses clenched in his teeth, and half his face on. He holds the door open and she scooches on in.

The locker room is tight, probably designed just for staff. There’s four big lockers facing the wall-length mirror Mister Shah monopolizes and a bench running down the center of the room. One locker is open—that’s Mister Shah’s. It’s got his shirt and slacks hanging up nice and a bunch of—well, she can’t quite figure the pile out, but it looks like junk—piled at the bottom. She’s nosy, but she ain’t nosy enough to go poking while he can probably see her in the mirror, glasses or no.

She opens the others, one by one. They’re empty as can be.

“Everything I found while cleaning is in my locker.” He put down his glasses once he opened the door for her and now he speaks carefully while lining his eye in a smaller, magnified mirror clipped to the big one. “Take a look. It’s a strange mix.”

And it is. She shuffles through some pamphlets, a shoe for a toddler, some photos, a coloring book, one actual painting—it’s gorgeous—before she gets to the interesting thing. A data drive. No date, but someone wrote on it in tiny print, it says: recitals.

“Hey, can I have this?” she asks. And it’s silly, of course it is. ‘Cause all she ever got outta the boss is that they spent one summer taking classes, that they did one recital that the boss spent sulking in the corner of the studio, and that it’d been his brother’s dream to buy up the place from three-year-old kid till—well. Till.

She only got that much because the brunch spot in Halcyon was an _awful_ choice on her part. Both she and the boss got a real weakness for bottomless mimosas and, well. It was great! Till things got ugly and then, real quick, even uglier.

They haven’t managed a ladies’ day out since. Which, to be fair, what a disaster. But she misses it. She misses him.

That whole story, though? Of course he didn’t remember it himself—come on, Rita, he was three!

But Benten wouldn’t stop talking about it. _He_ remembered the whole thing, every stupid second. And he never, ever shut up about it. Not until—

That’s what he’d said. He’d been crying a little, but in the dignified sorta way she can never manage when she’s tripped her way past tipsy. The kind where your face doesn’t get all scrunched or snotty, your voice doesn’t wobble, your eyes just glass over and over till tears spill down your cheeks and that first touch of wet’s when you notice you’re crying at all.

She’d cried, too, and it hadn’t been pretty. Right out front of this same studio, the two of them day-drunk and sobbing on the sidewalk. It was maybe a bit of a scene.

Anyway. Ain’t much chance that a little two-terabyte drive has a thirty-five-year-old dance recital for babies tucked away on it. But life’s more fun when you can believe that, every once in a while, things are just like in the streams.

“Why do you want it?” He asks. And it’s a fair question, but she only even knows cause the boss was three sheets to the wind when they tried to walk off the mimosas after brunch, when they passed the front window of the then-vacant studio and he had to stop and touch his hand to the glass for a bit. It ain’t her answer to give.

So, she lies. A little white one. Maybe once the boss is done being real suspicious of Mister Shah and they’re all best friends, she can tell him for real.

Yeah, right, Rita. Just like in the streams.

“Franny used to take classes here. At least, I’m pretty sure she did. Wanted to see if I could find one of her recitals, find video of her doin’ little pirouettes and all. Wouldn’t that be adorable?”

He smiles her way without turning, courtesy of the mirror. Mister Shah’s got two brands of smile: one that comes off real. . . polite. Real bland. Mister Shah ain’t either of those at all. And he’s got one that’s a little wicked around the edges and shows off his sharp teeth and is one-hundred percent real.

This one _should_ be more of the first and less of the second. It _should_ look fake as anything.

What it is, though, is genuine. She’s not sure she’s ever seen him just smile like that, all sincere and sweet. “Rita, that does sound—well, adorable. It’s yours.” And ooh, that makes her lie sink right down to the bottom of her gut and fester there a bit. Still: not her answer to give. She can’t feel too bad about it, huh?

She tucks the drive away safe in her clutch. She’ll keep it secret a while, won’t tell the boss about it even though they’ve got a movie date tonight. She wants to see, first. “Thanks, Mister Shah. You almost done? Better get out there before all those pretty parents start lining up outside to criticize my snack spread, huh?”

He turns and he’s done and he looks _amazing_. He clucks his tongue and gives her smile number two, the pointy one. “They’d never dare.”

“You met rich folks? They’d definitely dare. You look ready to handle ‘em though, ain’t seen a more gorgeous knight. Let’s fix the table so I don’t have to watch you stab anyone with toothpicks for my honor, huh?”

“If I look presentable at all, it’s only thanks to your inspiration.” Aww. He lets her lead the way, his hand tucked in the bend of her elbow. They’ve got a half-hour till the early crowd starts filtering in and she’s just a little shaky on his behalf. But whatever weirdness he’d been broadcasting before, it’s wiped away now. They spend the time setting up the tables, getting the sound system going, and locking up the staff-only rooms. With minutes left on the clock, she clacks around and fusses with the tiny things: napkins and little plates and the way flowers sit in their vases. He stands, chin high, in the center of the studio floor and says, “Rita, it’s perfect. There’s no need to worry—”

The bell at the corner of the door rings, and would you look at that? They’re off.

He’s amazing. Never shoulda doubted him for a second. He gladhands demanding parents like a ringleader would the audience and the whole circus, too. They walk away from him all smiles, every time. She loves the boss, wouldn’t trade him for all of Mars or anything else—but something jealous creeps up on her when she imagines Mister Shah’s force of charm applied to client-wrangling or interrogation. Or, like, thanking her for making the coffee every once in a while.

They’d make a good team, huh? A regular three-ring show.

Kids dart around and play, tugging at Mister Shah’s pricey sweats to get his attention. He drops to their level smoothly (and in stilettos!). He talks with his hands and his most nonthreatening smile. Any kids who bounce his way laugh and laugh and get a pat on the head and ooh, she really thought he’d be a disaster with kids, but this is just going so well—

“Excuse me.” A hand touches her shoulder from the left. She turns and follows it to the source. The lady in question’s got a wobbly, embarrassed smile, strawberry hair, and the sort of wrinkles you get from laughing a lot. She points Mister Shah’s direction. Rita’s a fan of her hand, delicate, freckled, and with a sweep of something charcoal-y smudged from pinky to wrist. A retro-style writer, maybe, or an artist. “He’s the owner, right? Are you with him?”

“It’s Mister Shah teaching all the classes, I’m just the moral support. Definitely not _with him_ if you get my meaning. Especially not if it’s you wondering.” And maybe that’s a little forward, but she’s never been much for kidding around. So she giggles and holds out a hand and the woman grasps it, her touch light and smooth. “I’m Rita! You’ve got a kid signed up?”

“Not yet. I’m Wren.” She’s dressed expensive but simple, that sort of linen-pant outfit that’s just so pretty and plain you can just tell it’s worth a paycheck at least. “I’m afraid I’m crashing the party—I just wandered in. I saw everyone coming and going and, well—maybe I’m too curious for my own good, but—”

Rita snorts a little when she laughs. So what? She knows she’s cute. “No such thing. Not here, at least. Ain’t that what grand openings are for? Lemme get you a flyer, just promise not to litter with it, okay? I told him digital only, but does he listen? No. Wren,” she drags out the name, sings it. It’s a beautiful one and it deserves a little something extra. “I just can’t have that on my conscience, you know?”

Wren’s eyebrows rise, her lips part. Those lips of hers look so soft, soft as the sweeping curve of her face. But there’s something lovely and sharp in the gold of her eyes. Something _foxy_. And those eyes are all hers now, Wren’s pulled ‘em well away from Mister Shah. “Gorgeous _and_ environmentally conscious? I have to confess, Rita: I don’t have any children at all, I’m afraid your flyer might be wasted on me. But, if I can find you here—”

“Comms might be faster. If you were thinking you might wanna see me some other time.” And, yeah, her comms are in her hand in a second. She does just fine, thank you—but she ain’t about to miss out on someone so—ooh, just so— ”Saves paper too, you know? Callin’ me.”

It’s cute, the way the corners of her mouth tip up, the way a blush pushes forward as she reaches for Rita’s comms. They’re both too old to get all flustered by a little friendly flirting, but it’s _cute_. “Let me—here, I’ll give you my coordinates. I,” she looks away for a moment, her eyes land somewhere behind and above Rita’s shoulder. Then: “I’d love to go out sometime, really. I’d like to get to know you some, Rita.”

 _Woof_ , okay! No askin’ her twice. Wren sticks around to chat a minute or forty and leaves after some punch, a short tour of all Rita’s favorite hors d’oeuvres, and a few promises to call. She’s an artist, she tells Rita. She sketches in charcoal and paints some, too. She walks the streets of Halcyon for a little scheduled inspiration Saturday afternoons, and isn’t she lucky she does? She’s so glad, she says, they might never have met otherwise. And she ducks her head and holds Rita’s hand a little longer than strictly usual when she says goodbye.

And, ooh, that’s enough to buoy Rita right through the rest of the afternoon, through bouts of passive-aggressive Halcyon parenting, gossip about crazed fans breaking into Casa Kanagawa, and endless posturing about jobs or maybe star cruisers; she doesn’t recognize the lingo, could be anything, really. People hang around chatting into the early evening. And when she looks up from the last ring of _goodbye_ s and _see you next week, dear_ s to see no one else waiting for her but Mister Shah with his shark grin and his shiny, shiny eyes, well. She’s happy enough to squeal for the both of ‘em.

* * *

“And did I mention? I got a DATE.” She ends the recap of the afternoon on a high note and she’s right. It went astoundingly well. When he holds the day’s work up to the light, there’s a radiant piece of it that’s all her; on his own, this would be just another step in a list. It would be a reason to perhaps smile a little wider, walk a little surer.

“You did mention, well done. I’ve bought us something.” They’ve retreated to his office, tiny and furnished only with a secondhand desk and a squeaky chair. The bag he stowed in her cooler is precisely where he left it, and he pulls out the champagne— _actual_ champagne from the appropriately-named region in the Arcturus nebula—and places the bottle on the desk for her examination. “Call it a thank you. Well-deserved, and likely the first of many.”

On his own, there would be no reason to celebrate.

She ignores the bottle, makes a high-pitched noise, and launches herself at him. He holds on. In the last two months, he’s spent a whole parade of nights watching streams curled on her sofa, wrapped in her blankets. They’ve critiqued films full-volume as they watched. Once, he’d abandoned any sense of dignity to join her in tossing awful snack foods first at the screen and then one another. The air lacks the glaze of fresh popcorn, but when she folds herself into his arms she smells like a place he could sit and be safe, at least for a while.

He holds on. If Peter Nureyev is anything at all, he is a fool.

The universe conspires to prove this fact immediately. But there is one thing he will swear on:

The bell doesn’t ring.

Wherever the intruders come from, the bell he fastened to the front door does not ring. Neither is there a back entryway, nor any kind of emergency exit (the plans and his investigation of the building prove, if anything, that Hyperion City code enforcement is a joke).

It’s simply the two of them, alone until they aren’t. He’s just let go, Rita has both hands on his forearms, she’s opened her mouth to say something. And in that breath, quiet footsteps and a whistled tune.

There’s no time for the things he’s capable of doing; no time to retrieve a knife, no time to turn the room into an opportunity.

There is one option that has yet to fail him, but disappearing is a lonely task. Instead, he uses those seconds at his disposal to place himself between her and the door.

The man whistles as he opens it, every note staccato and every movement unhurried. He’s dressed simply in a tan suit and white gloves, a powered-down stun baton in his hands. His clear eyes and wide face wear earnestness like Shah wears a simper. When his smile curls from one corner of his mouth, the rest of his face dimples as if to scurry out of its way. “And here he is, Preston. Told you we’d catch him at home.”

He’s followed by the muscle, a wall of a woman with a gun in hand. “Sure did.” Peter reaches behind his back to press a hand to Rita’s own. _Trust me_ , he means. “Ma’am,” says the woman, speaking around Peter as if he were no one at all. “You oughta head outside with me. The boys are gonna talk.”

Rita closes her fingers around his. “Fine here, actually.” Peter Nureyev finds it very difficult to breathe.

The woman shrugs. “Won’t make you. But we’re gonna need to break up the band.” And here she reaches past Peter’s attempts to keep himself between the two. He hits the edge of the desk when she shoves him aside. The heel of one shoe pivots and his ankle twists. Peter looks up to see her lock Rita in a hold, hand firm to her face but loose over her mouth, blaster to her belly. “Keep quiet and you’ll get to keep breathing nice and easy, one way or the other. All good with you, Chuck?”

All his focus on Rita, none on the snake of the two. With Peter’s weight against the desk, it’s simple for the man to sweep the baton just so. The baton remains powered off, but the impact of the thing against the backs of his knees is enough to sweep his feet out from under him, to introduce Peter to the floor. The man called Chuck rests his baton in the center of Peter’s chest. “Just fine, Pressie. Let’s get to business: it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Pierce.”

It’s genuine: “Who?”

Something like satisfaction creeps into the smile eating up the man’s face. “Regis Pierce? Not familiar? You’re quite the artist, Mr. Shah. Our client remembers a masterpiece of yours. She’d like the real one back. That is why we’re here today; that, and our own self-interest. You see, we like your business model.” Close up, it’s clear: the man’s blue eyes hold nothing at all. Any masquerade of feeling lives in the creases of his face, a surface-level disguise. “We’d like to invest. By which I mean: you will return your art to our client and then you’ll dance for us. I’m sure you have something grand planned, don’t you? You seem like that sort of man. We want what you win.”

The painting instructor on Luna. The forgeries. Years in the past, the originals all long gone.

He tells them so.

“Well,” says Chuck. “I simply don’t believe you.” And he lays in with the baton first, one kick of a blow against Peter’s side. It takes his breath and possibly the integrity of a rib or two. This, twice more and followed by a pair of comparatively gentle cuffs to the face. Beneath the gloves, the man wears several rings. Peter’s glasses do not entirely survive the experience. “We’ve done your work for you. We’ve got eyes on a certain vault, you see. It holds a piece of interest. What we need is the access code.”

One half a syllable from Rita before she’s silenced. She keeps shouting, he can hear her legs kicking, likely against the larger woman’s shins. She keeps it up, words muffled only to a four-beat refrain of _mmph!_ But Peter Nureyev knows what she’s saying so desperately: _I can do it_. _Let me do it._

And she can, Perseus Shah knows this. She can stop this in an instant. And Peter Nureyev knows that they would never let her go.

So it’s an easy choice, and the truth, too: “I cannot access the paintings. I sold them long ago. The vault isn’t mine.”

“Well,” Chuck studies his hand a moment, flexes the fingers. He’s wearing Peter’s blood on the knuckles of his gloves. “Now I’m only _uncertain_ I believe you. But we’ll need you in dancing shape, thief. So here’s the plan: we don’t touch the little lady, she’s not part of the deal. But _you_ make sure she doesn’t talk, however you might go about it. It’s your business and your skin. You don’t talk to anyone but us. And we’ll be in touch, thief! Whatever little show you’re planning, consider me your new director. Terribly sorry to insult your operation but, frankly, you look like you could use the help. It’s a shame about the painting, but I know when to take a loss.

“Although,” he says. “You _have_ wasted my evening.” And in a blink, his hand clenches uncompromising around Peter’s throat. He drags him into a sitting position. “Perseus,” conversational, drawling, as he squeezes. His voice floats in and out of focus, just like those orbs of light that decorate Peter’s vision. He’s aware he’s struggling, that he’s kicking and clawing and that he cannot control it. “That’s really your first problem. Perseus, Regis, it’s all a little ostentatious. I’d recommend something punchier. Something less memorable. Hence, Chuck. But I’d better stop before we lose our investment, hm? Remember your steps in this dance, thief. Who knows? If you’re any good, maybe you’ll be part of the family some day. And do think hard about that vault.”

Air returns and he loses his grasp on the world for a while, falls insensate with the monsters still wandering the room. He returns with his head in Rita’s lap. She’s murmuring a mile a minute and petting his hair. Every inch of him is sick with pain. “Oh please, oh please, oh—oh! Don’t talk. Don’t you talk. I’ve gotta get you out of here, get you to a hospital. I’ve gotta—ooh.” She looks like she may cry. “I’ve gotta call the boss. I—I’ve gotta. Don’t you worry, Mister Shah. We’ll sort this out. You, me, the boss—best detective team anyone could ask for, they won’t know what hit ‘em. You believe me?”

He disobeys. There simply isn’t a choice: “I’m not.” He creaks the words out. He moves to sit against the desk, pushes past the screaming in his ribs and the pressure of her hands on his shoulders. “I’m not Shah. Not Pierce either.” He spares a thought for recording devices: it’s what he would do. But the intruders would need the best equipment on the market to pick up the bare rasp he can only just force out, and they’re too blunt a duo to manage that. Pierce and Shah the only aliases they could string together? Amateurs. But they got the better of him. And so he leans in close to her ear and tells her the truth. It is what he must remind himself lately, what he’ll need to come out on top, and so very much less than she deserves: “Rita. My name is Peter Nureyev.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cws for part one: depression, compartmentalization, mentions of vomit though nothing onscreen/graphic, alcohol use/abuse, intoxication in a POV character, violence that includes strangulation/choking. There are brief references to drug use/addiction and child abuse.
> 
>   
> One day I'll acknowledge the fact plasma knives are a thing in this universe but it's not today <3
> 
> I started writing this in MARCH and wrote an entire other S1 AU in the meantime and I'm very excited to be posting this now! This plays a little with characterization introduced in Man in Glass but I had fun with it and ignored some other things introduced in that same episode (debt? what debt?). I hope you enjoy my nonsense. Apologies to any ballet people out there--I, like at least one of our heroes, know essentially nothing about anything. 
> 
> I think the second part of this should be ready relatively quickly, but the third will take. . . longer. In the meantime, I hope you enjoyed!


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